


Don't Let Go

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Smut, Songfic, our favourite witnesses, somebody stop me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-27 08:45:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6277657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off the song "Don't Let Go" by En Vogue. </p><p>Abbie and Jenny prepare for karaoke night at the local bar. It's Abbie's first proper outing since the Catacombs. Ichabod wants to make an impression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What's it Gonna Be?

**Author's Note:**

> 95 kudos! Thank you, everyone.

"You are coming to Karaoke night, right?"

Ichabod looked up at Joe Corbin from the huge tome open on the kitchen counter and brushed his hair off his face. He was working on translating some very dry - even for his taste - Sumarian text into English. It was about as enjoyable as being left in the doldrums on a ship across the Atlantic with nothing but hard tack to eat. "'Tis tonight?"

Joe helped himself to some ham and lettuce from the fridge and built a sandwich, glancing up at Ichabod. "At The Old Triangle. Abbie and Jenny are doing a duet." He wiggled his eyebrows.

Ichabod tried not to think about what that meant. He was truly happy for Master Corbin and Miss Jenny, but sometimes their happy - although sometimes volatile - relationship made him yearn for things out of his reach.

"Abbie wanted me to make sure you didn't miss it," Joe added, slicing the bread and taking a huge bite of the sandwich.

"I shall be in attendance. 'Tis the Lieutenant's first proper outing since...." he trailed off, his fingers curling into a fist. 

"I know, dude." Joe set down his sandwich and rounded the counter for a moment, clapping Ichabod on the shoulder. "We all feel it. She just needs time. It's the one thing no one can speed up. And it sucks."

"Thank you." Sighing, Ichabod closed the tome as Joe moved away. He brushed some of the residual dust off his shirt, and looked down at himself with an inward huff. His shirt needed a clean. He hadn't washed his hair in some days, and he didn't want to think of the state of his coat after a few too many hurried "take-out" meals while hunched over the latest monster book. "Master Corbin?"

"Yo," Joe answered from inside the fridge, poking around for something else to eat.

"We have a few hours yet until the gathering, do we not?"

"Sure." Joe emerged from the fridge with some cheese and started to make another sandwich. "Plenty of time. Why?"

Ichabod drew in a deep breath. He was still unaccustomed to asking for help from his friends, especially when it came to matters of the heart. Especially when it came to Abbie. He'd buried that particular cry for help so deep that it rarely came to the surface infront of others, but Joe had seen through his - probably very thin - facade in the Archives previously. And since the other man had also fallen for a Mills sister, it made sense that Joe should be the one he would put his faith in.

"I may need some advice," he began.

Joe lifted an eyebrow in silent question.

"For too long I have needed to have - I believe the term is - tunnel vision. Akin to a horse wearing blinkers. There has always been a mission to complete, a task to be done. Someone other than myself to consider. However, I have ignored my.... personal issues. But no longer. I intend to join you all at the tavern tonight, and I would like to do so in decent attire. With that in mind...." He reminded himself that Master Corbin was a friend to whom he would entrust his life. "How do you feel about going marketing?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is brought to you with the exciting news that I finally know my IRS ITIN number! Hooray! And the IRS were really nice to me and said that I sounded "really fancy, like someone off Downton Abbey!"


	2. I Can't Pretend

Abbie warmed up her voice with a beer.

Okay, so beer wasn't good for the vocals. But it was only karaoke anyhow.

Jenny slid another Sam Adams towards her, the top already screwed off. "Think your boy'll show?"

Abbie started to pick at the label on the bottle. "He's not my boy." But he might be at the end of the night if she had anything to say about it.

Jenny sent her a look that said: uh huh.

Currently the stage was occupied by two teenage girls singing something by Taylor Swift about long country walks, holding hands and the slam of screen doors. The pair had nice voices and their friends cheered them on. Abbie tried not to look too much at the doors to the pub. Crane would come. He couldn't have forgotten, could he? She had asked Joe to remind him-

"Relax," Jenny interjected. "Crane's memory is like a steel trap. He remembers stuff from before the Earth was born. He'll be here." She slipped her hand into her jacket pocket. "Oh, Joe's texted. They're on their way. Apparently Crane wanted to go shopping."

Abbie took a long pull on her beer. "What the hell for?"

"Joe doesn't say." Jenny put the phone back into her pocket and drank a little of her own beer. "Cold feet, sis?"

Abbie relished the short word on her sister's tongue. For a long time she had worried that she had ostracized Jenny. That she'd never hug her sister again; never make her smile. It had kept her awake at night, plagued her dreams when she had slept. Their relationship still needed the odd kink worked out of it, and relationships - worthwhile ones - took time. But this easy camaraderie? Sitting together at the bar, about to sing a stupid duet on stage? She had never in her wildest imaginings thought this possible.

And she felt grateful for it every damn day.

"Nah. Just know I'm gonna kick your ass in the vocal department," she joked.

Jenny raised a brow. "That's fighting talk. And I can't be any worse than Crane with that ridiculous sailor song. He's banned from singing anything older than 60s music now, you know. People left."

The sisters laughed together for a moment, and then the barman called out their names as the tweenies left the stage.

"Abbie and Jenny Mills, with Don't Let Go - En Vogue."

Jenny tipped her beer at her sister. "We're on, Cher."

"So I'm Sonny, I guess," Abbie chuckled. She drained her beer and followed her sister to the stage. The music was being cued up as they took their places.

Just as the bars of the music began, the notes storming through the hazy atmosphere of the pub, the doors opened, and Joe and Crane walked in. Abbie's mouth all but hit her boots.

Holy Hell, they'd gone shopping, all right.

Her fellow witness wore jeans. Damn jeans. And damn again if they didn't make his legs go on forever. Gone was the heavy wool coat that he habitually wore whether it was December or July. It had been replaced with a faded, hip-length brown leather jacket, that somehow managed to strike just the right balance between bad boy and adventure-librarian. The leather looked as soft as butter. Underneath he wore a button-down shirt the same captivating azure as his eyes.

He was a long drink of water. And she'd suddenly become very thirsty.

Several heads turned as he and Joe walked in. 

All the moisture left Abbie's mouth as Crane looked up and met her gaze. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.


	3. More Than Friends

He couldn't have moved if wild horses had dragged him.

Like magic, the smoky atmosphere of the pub cleared, and Ichabod saw her on the stage.

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen, in this or any age. The Goddess of the Hunt. Venus in a denim jacket and red shoes.

She and Jenny stood together, holding microphones as the music streamed through the bar's speakers. He saw Abbie's lips move, but her gaze was pinned to his as she and her sister started to sing to the tune.

_What's it gonna be, 'cause I can't pretend. Don't  you wanna be more than friends?_

Her voice held him captive, as did her dark eyes. He could drown in those eyes and die a very happy man.

He had no idea what she thought of his "modern" clothes. The jacket had been Joe's idea. He felt practically naked in the short outerwear, but Master Corbin had insisted that it suited him. Made him look  _cool._  

The surprise in Abbie's eyes had certainly been worth the change.

Joe nudged him. "You want a beer?"

"Beer?" he murmured absently, without taking his eyes off his Lieutenant.

"You know. That drink we often enjoy together after we kill monsters." Joe followed his gaze and chuckled. "Yeah, thanks Joe, I'd love one, Sam Adams, cheers very much," he said in a British accent.

The terrible impression of his own voice snapped Ichabod briefly out of his trance and he frowned. "That is _not_ what I sound like." But Joe had already disappeared off into the direction of the bar.

_I know you think that if we move too soon, it would all end._

All around them, the other patrons were going about their every day lives, talking and joking. Couldn't they see her up there? Everything about her - her slightly cocked hip, the glint in her eye, the red of her lips, drew him like a moth to a flame. Where there was fire, he was in danger of getting burned. But he suddenly found that he wasn't afraid of the heat. Not anymore.

_Hold me tight and don't let go._

He moved towards the stage without conscious thought, inescapably entrapped by the siren song of the woman he'd crossed centuries to find.


	4. Hold Me Tight

"C'mon sis. Don't leave me hanging."

Abbie belatedly realised that Jenny was holding her hand up, palm out, for a high-five. "Sorry." She quickly obliged her sister.

"We killed it," Jenny said confidently, stepping off the stage and into Joe's waiting arms. Corbin kissed her with the easy familiarity of an established relationship. For her part, Abbie was pleased for them. Jenny's boyfriends had been shady types until Joe had come back into their lives. It had been all too easy for Abbie to see the love shining in the eyes of August's son. It had taken Jenny a little longer to see and/or react, but Abbie hoped that their love would see them through many years. Many tribulations.

The word reminded her of Crane, who stood patiently by the stage, hands in the pockets of his new jacket. The pose was so uncharacteristic of him, she blinked as she stepped off the stage, after passing the mic off to the next karaoke singer.

He was always better looking up close. She had no idea why that continually surprised her. His shorter hair emphasised his amazing cheekbones and the arresting structure of his face. "You didn't tell me we were doing Grease costumes tonight."

"I - Oh. Yes. The American high school musical." He smiled at her expression of surprise. "I have had much time to acclimatize. Miss Jenny has been kind enough to give me a list of films it would be remiss of me not to watch." He removed his hands from his pockets and smoothed back his hair, a nervous gesture. "Perhaps - a drink?"

"Sure."

Feeling very much like she'd been set up on a date, Abbie followed him to the bar. So did a few pairs of nearby female eyes. Abbie felt a sharp pang of jealousy and pushed it away. She was late to this party, it seemed. She could hardly believe that it had taken that godforsaken year in the catacombs for her to finally see what had been right in front of her eyes for months. Maybe since that day they'd met and joked about Starbucks, since he'd showed her Washington's diary in his grave cave. Since she'd taken that first, very shaky step towards her role as a Witness.

"I do like the new threads, though," she ventured after he ordered them both beer.

"Oh?"

"You're a regular GQ ad." She accepted the bottle from the bartender with a nod of thanks. "Joe help you?"

"I deferred to his superior experience. The whole marketing trip was, I must admit, rather overwhelming."

Abbie laughed. "Crane in jeans. Maybe now you'll reconsider that pink and brown sweater I bought for you.."

"Not a chance."

They drank in silence for a moment. On stage, a middle aged man with a voice made for sin sang about making love on the backseat of a pick-up truck, a cowboy hat tipped low on his face. He took a break for a few bars of instrumental, and Abbie said into the void: "I'm glad you came."

"I would not have missed it for anything. You were magnificent," he replied, and she heard the ring of sincerity in his voice. He lifted his beer bottle and she clinked her own against it. "My place is at your side. I am aware that after.... you were forced to liberate me from the holding centre after my tour of Scotland, you worry that I do not speak the truth. But I assure you, nothing is more certain to me than my place here in Sleepy Hollow. With you."

Abbie's eyes burned. "I sometimes wonder what I did to deserve you."

Ichabod set his bottle down on the bar, and his hand came up to very gently cup her cheek. "I feel that we will always do our utmost to deserve each other. And furthermore, to trust each other with every opportunity that comes our way. Both regarding the tribulations, and.... personally."

Her heart thumped hard in her chest at the heat that flared in his blue eyes. "Such as..."

"This," he whispered, and kissed her.


	5. Lose Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where I finally live up to the "smut" tag of this story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. Fuelled by my fear of the end of Season 3 and whether anyone will get what they want (including the characters!).
> 
> Anyway, I've voted on the TVLine poll thing... for all the good that'll do.

Abbie barely remembered reeling in shock when he kissed her. The fact that he had finally shrugged off his Puritan mantle and  _smiled_ at her in public, let alone kissed her, had blown the top of her head off. It had been years coming, but suddenly a dam had broken inside them both.

She half remembered abandoning her beer and tugging him through the slightly ajar back door of the bar. The moon was up, a bright orb in the sky, but the back area of the bar's yard was unlit, and Crane's eyes looked black from the lack of light. His expression was near feral as he looked down at her. She felt a little feral herself.

She came to properly when he shoved her against the brick wall, his eyes searching hers - for what she didn't know. Permission? Absolution? The same spark that lit his gaze? She gave it to him, all of it, fisting her small hand in the thick fall of his hair, and the thin thread of patience holding him back snapped. He kissed her deeply, fiercely. She felt the scrape of his beard on his lips, her cheeks, and urged him closer. 

For long moments nothing except the sound of their bodies moving together and their harsh breaths filled the air. Beyond, the noise of the city seemed dulled, as if Abbie heard it through a thick blanket. She felt as if she were drowning in sensation, her body weighed down by the thick syrup of desire sliding through her veins. Their tongues tangled and, wanting, needing to get closer, Abbie settled her hands on her shoulders and boosted herself up his long body, locking her legs around his hips.

He responded by releasing her mouth and pressing hot kisses to her cheeks and jaw, then exploring the sensitive column of her neck. Abbie arched back against him. He was hot at her front, arms banded tight around her, the wall cold and unyielding at her back. The combination of sensations, along with the tickle of his beard at her pulsepoint, packed a dizzying punch.

She wondered hazily whether their bond at Witnesses would  make sex really good - or whether a three year build up alone would be enough to blow her head off. The compound of both might kill her, she thought dimly. 

Sensation prickled through her as he cupped her breast through the thin black blouse she wore. Her sheer lace bra did very little to hide the pebble of her nipple under the fabric. She was highly aroused, and if Crane's growl against the place where her neck met her shoulder was any indication, he knew. She urged his face back up, biting at his mouth as his long fingers worked on her. He made short work of the cute little red buttons of her blouse, and the night air, a little chilly yet, ghosted over her heated skin. She bucked against him as he stroked her sensitive flesh, murmuring sweet nothings she couldn't quite make out against her swollen lips.

He was hot and heavy against her and she circled her hips, trying to get closer still, wishing away the pesky barriers of clothing. Her heart pounded with the shock of their relationship progressing from 0-60 in lightning speed. If someone had told her this morning that she'd be getting heavily petted by Crane in the back alley of a bar tonight, she'd have laughed. 

But she'd have thought about it.

The door moved and Abbie's breath caught as unwelcome reality came crashing back down. "Not here," she managed to bite out as the clink of bottles from inside rang out into the alley.

He quickly refastened the buttons of her blouse, his expression unreadable. "My most sincere apologies. I-"

"Don't," she warned as he gently set her on her feet. "Don't you dare fucking  _apologise_ for that. Unless you didn't mean ... to touch me."

His mouth pinched into a stern line. "I have never meant anything more in my entire life." He stood stiffly, at parade ground rest. He would have looked like a chastened soldier if not for the rather impressive erection tenting his jeans.

Abbie didn't want Puritan Crane back. At least, not until the morning. "I think this would go much better if we were... horizontal." 

She held her hand out, a silent invitation. He threaded his fingers through hers, fire in his eyes.

 

 


	6. I won't be satisfied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love that old fashioned Colonial restraint.

By moonlight, they walked the few blocks home from the Old Triangle, hand in hand.

The entire time, Ichabod had to stop from hitting himself in the face.

He had treated her like... a common  _doxy_ in that alleyway. He had no excuse for his behaviour, save her sultry performance in the tavern. And that was no excuse at all. He was a grown man, and should act as such, not an untried boy.

He wanted to give her a bed of roses. Soft words and even softer caresses. A memorable first time with him. He wanted to touch her with the reverence she deserved. He wanted to give her  _romance._ To give her love.

Yet his Lieutenant hadn't seemed to mind. On the contrary, she had responded with a fiery fervour that had near destroyed him. They were both lucky that his knees hadn't given out on him when she'd grazed him with her teeth. His entire body was aflame with desire for her.

But he should have remembered their bond. Their duty as Witnesses should have come before everything else. But he had let his baser instincts get the better of him. In a weak moment whilst marketing earlier, he and Joe had spoken about their romantic entanglements of the past. Katrina had been mentioned, and Joe had made a passing comment about the cabin. "Whatever happened there between you and Katrina, well, you don't live there anymore. You and Abbie have your own place, to, you know. Make memories."

And then he'd confessed that, no, it hadn't been like that. He and his then estranged wife had tried to re-ignite their former intimacy, but every attempt had ended in awkwardness and failure. They'd stopped trying, and after she had donned the cloak of evil, he'd been glad of that.

He  _had_ re-established a reliable relationship with his right hand.

"Wait, so..." Joe's brow had lifted in shock. "You haven't.. in two hundred years?"

"Technically, Master Corbin, my life was paused and then started again, so it hasn't  _actually_ been more than-"

"I get it, dude." But Joe's frown stayed in place. "It'll make it more special. When, you know."

Unsure how to respond, Ichabod had stayed quiet, contemplative, at this offering from Corbin. After the shambles that was his relationship with Abraham, he'd become unused to having close male friends. Didn't know how to open up to them. Joe was the one person he had shared such confidences with. Joe, who also loved one of the Sisters Mills.

"Your thoughts are too loud, Crane," Abbie chastised from his side, squeezing his hand.  When he said nothing, she stopped a few yards from their house and turned to face him, taking his other hand and looking up into his face. Her own delicate features were lit by the streetlamp a few feet away, and the white face of the moon, hanging high in the sky. "Come on, let me in." She tilted her head to the side slightly, and his heart squeezed painfully at the open question on her face.

"I should not have treated you so. Behind the tavern." He bit the words off, annoyed. At his own actions. At the fact he still wanted her more than his next breath. Annoyed at the universe and its crafty, secrets plans for them. Plans where their lives could hang in the balance. "It was crass of me. You deserve better." His eyes burned. "I treated you like.... I behaved worse than a _rakehell_."

She smiled slightly. "I don't know what that is - but I can guess," she added, before he could explain. "Let me ask you some questions."

Perplexed, he could only nod in agreement. She would recriminate him now, he estimated. Ask him what in hell he thought he had been doing. What gave him the right to put his hands on her so.

"Did I scream?" she asked.

"No," he was forced to answer.

"Did I fight you off?"

"No."

"Did I yell for help?"

"No."

She continued in a serious tone. "Did I show even a single sign that I was unhappy with what you did?"

"No," he answered, after a pause, his heartbeat kicking up.

"So, would you put that Oxford education to good use and tell me why the  _hell_ you're beating yourself up about this? I  _want_ this. I'm a grown-ass woman, Crane, and an FBI agent to boot. If I wanted you off me, I'd have achieved it. Easily." She paused. "And if you apologise again, you might lose your chance of continuing what we started just now."

She lifted her head for a kiss, and he obliged, relief and desire and want and need twining through him at the taste of her soft lips. Before long the kiss took on a life of its own, and he was yanking her close, her hands sinking into his hair as he explored her mouth with his tongue. They broke apart, both breathing hard, staring at each other under the veil of moonlight, the street silent around them, the barest hint of breeze picking up the ends of Abbie's black hair.

"This has to be your decision," she whispered into the space between their bodies. "You're the one with the Puritan complex."

In answer, he swung her up into his arms and carried her towards their house.

It was not too late to give her romance, after all.

 


	7. 'Til we're takin' the vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, and the smutty conclusion we all deserve. This is NOT safe for work. You have been warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has stuck with this. Comments = love.
> 
> I've said it before but I'll say it again - the Sleepy Hollow fandom is so, so friendly and welcoming. Thanks to all who have made my first foray into fanfic so enjoyable.
> 
> The line of poetry near the end is from John Donne's "The Good Morrow."

It was the first time Abbie had ever been carried over the threshold of anything, let alone her own house. It was a bit tricky, as it turned out - she had to fiddle in Crane's pocket for his keys, difficult in jeans, then somehow open the door without him letting her go, but then-

 _Then,_ when he kicked the door closed and kissed her almost into next week, when she bit off "bedroom" against his mouth, when he carried her upstairs and set her so gently on his big, wide, bed-

They looked at each other for a long moment, almost, she thought fondly, like children playing mums and dads in the playground, suddenly forced into acting it out.

In reality, hot-as-hell tavern backwall clinches aside, they had never been anything other than friends to each other. Never touched each other that way. Never... assumed this could happen. 

Finally he moved, shrugging off his new leather jacket. She liked it, but - and this would never fail to amuse her - she found she preferred his usual attire. He just didn't seem....  _Crane_ in his new threads. And she missed that.

He sat down on the bed beside her. She grasped at the lapels of his button-down shirt and angled her mouth over his, just a whisper of a kiss, a promise of things to come. He responded in kind, kissing her so gently that she thought he feared she might break, his hands threading through her hair, stroking reverently. She had the very real impression that he was worshipping her with touches rather than words. A sharp pang struck her heart.

As the kiss took on more urgency, she started on the buttons of his shirt , unbuttoning them one by one, slipping the little plastic circles through the eyelets, revealing his pale, lithe torso inch by inch. He'd definitely gotten thinner; perhaps he'd neglected his own needs whilst she'd been in the catacombs. Her chest clenched. Of course he had. He would ever put her before himself.

Her fingers kissed the length of the scar on his chest. A reminder of how they'd come together. A reminder of what  _kept_ them together.

But after tonight, they would have a new memory to bond them. Something more than fending off the end of the world. A deeper bond. The thought made her shiver with anticipation.

She shoved the shirt off his shoulders and he obediently released her. She broke the kiss to push his sleeves down and off, and looked down at the body she'd revealed. Lean but toned, only a slight spattering of hair, arrowing down into his jeans. She suddenly wondered what his underwear would be like, and her pulse kicked in anticipation of discovery.

He paused her hands, and the look on his face told her he wanted to go on his own voyage of discovery. Tenderly- ever the gentleman - he removed her denim jacket, and started to unbutton her blouse the way he had outside the tavern. Her heart pounded at his slow, romantic ministrations, but she found herself frowning.

"Another time."

She watched him try to hide the utter, sharp dismay on his face as he went to move away. "Of course. I-"

"No, you dolt. I _know_ what you're doing. You want it to be romantic. And it  _is._ But.." Her gaze darted away, and then she swallowed and found her voice. "I don't want slow and soft. I want what you gave me outside the pub."

His eyes went very dark. "You are sure."

A thrill shot through Abbie at his face. She'd never seen that look before - almost like a wolf at the moment before it struck its prey. The raw edge in his eyes reminded her of 1781 Crane. Unyielding. Commanding. She pressed her legs together at the sudden, involuntary clench of her internal muscles.

If she said no, he would walk away and her heart and her body would be safe. He would go back to being her friend, her partner, her silent shadow, throwing himself infront of bullets for her, cooking her four course gourmet meals, glancing at her during long research nights in the Archives-

Yeah. She'd never been one for  _safe._

She moistened her lips. "I'm sure."

She barely saw him move, but in seconds he had pinned to the mattress, his long body totally covering hers. He kissed her deeply, fiercely, his hands moulding her hips, pressing her into him. She felt every hard edge of him, and desire coiled up inside her. 

He kissed his way down her neck and she arched under him, loving the sudden roughness, the overwhelming desire given free reign. He made her feel  _magnificent._

He nipped at her collarbone, and lower, parting the fabric of her blouse, then, looking up, and holding her gaze, he took the sides of the garment and ripped it apart. Buttons popped everywhere. Abbie knew what he was seeing now. Her thin, lacy bra. Very sheer. Underneath her nipples were hard. He looked at her for another hot second, and then used his tongue on her, first through the bra, and then, shoving the cups up and over her breasts, on her naked flesh.

She squirmed underneath him, at the flashes of pleasure as he feasted on her, making no attempt to be gentle, to treat her like a porcelain doll. As his mouth drew her up to the first shaky peak, he slid a hand between their bodies and flicked open the buttons of her black jeans. At the first touch of his hand beneath the lace of her panties, she almost came off the bed.

" _Jesus,_ Crane."

He didn't let up, his mouth on her breast, his hand stroking in maddening circles, until she could only keen his name, her entire body focused on the hot bead of pleasure threatening to rip her apart. She hovered on the sharp precipice of orgasm, and gasped when he moved down her body, tearing off her jeans. The denim and her shoes hit the bedroom floor, unnoticed. She held her breath as he kissed his way down her stomach. His breath was hot on her skin as his fingers slowly, so slowly, edged under the lace band of her thin underwear, exploring, stroking.

Then he licked her through the fabric.

Abbie cried out sharply as his tongue and lips worked together to drive her mad. The pressure of his tongue together with the friction from the lace pattern worked its hot, sensual magic on her flesh. Then finally, finally, he pushed the wet lace aside and tasted her without barriers. The pleasure was so intense that the world went black as she came, shuddering against him, riding on a wave of bliss.

She watched through half lidded eyes as he slid her underwear off, and then removed the rest of his clothes. She was still shivering with the little aftershocks of orgasm when he returned to the bed, settling between her legs. His hair fell around his face in disarray, and all she could summon the strength to say was, " _Damn,"_ before he pushed into her.

He was very hard; and hot inside her. He hit a sweet spot, and suddenly a surge of energy led to her clamping her legs around him as he moved. He braced himself over her and bent down, his beard scratching pleasantly against her neck as he dropped rough kisses on her cheeks, her jaw, and finally, her mouth. They moved together for what seemed an eternity, Abbie's hands clenched on his shoulders as he made love to her. 

When he moved one talented hand between their bodies and strummed that wet, sensitive place, she came again, the orgasm stealing the breath from her lungs. She felt him quicken his pace to an almost punishing one, his gaze ardent on her own.

"My name," he gritted out against her lips as his body jackhammered. "Say it."

She did, but his  _first_ name, fervently, like a prayer, and it sent him over the edge. She felt his body coil as her own muscles contracted around him, and she kissed him through the orgasm. Her heart rabbited, and as he collapsed on top of her, she realised she no longer knew where she ended and he began.

After a moment that seemed to bleed into an hour, he lifted his head briefly, dropping a soft kiss on her temple.

"If ever any beauty I did see, which I desir'd, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee."

Of course. Because after the best sex of her life, he would quote poetry at her. Her hand slid bonelessly from his back. "I think you killed me."

"Oh! Of course. I must be heavy. I-"

"No, I like it." She held him still, and he settled against her, his breathing slowing, his arms warm around her.

The house quieted around them, the only light in the room the glow from streetlamps outside. 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Abbie drifted into a deep, contended sleep, her heart overflowing with love.

 


End file.
